


Fallen Star

by tria_star



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-20 22:37:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tria_star/pseuds/tria_star
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last stand of the Kingsguard at the Tower of Joy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fallen Star

They were three against seven. 

Old Ser Gerold Hightower led the three, with the darkly grinning Ser Oswell Whent on his left and Ser Arthur Dayne on his right. The breeze that whipped through the mountains set their white cloaks snapping. 

 _Three sworn brothers_ , Arthur thought,  _against seven rebels_.  

The one who led the seven was new to manhood, but already blooded in war. Ned Stark had fought at the Trident where Prince Rhaegar fell, led Robert Baratheon’s army when it took King’s Landing, and lifted the siege of Storm’s End. Then he had traveled with six companions  through the mountains of Dorne to rescue his sister Lyanna, and found her held by three knights of the Kingsguard. 

 _The last three_ , Arthur mused. The rebellion had taken the lives of two and shown the true colours of two more, who yet lived.  _They are no brothers of mine_. He tightened his grip on his sword, the ancestral blade his house called Dawn. 

Dawn thirsted for traitor’s blood, and these traitors would do. 

As the two sides moved towards each other, Arthur sized up his opponent. Ned Stark was not the tallest of men, but he was hardily built, and he carried the Valyrian steel sword in his hands with ease. Stark was closely shadowed by a smaller man hooded in green and wielding a bronze spear. The others fanned out behind those two, mostly northmen, a blur of colours and sigils and bristling steel. 

Stark met Arthur’s gaze and held it, and it was understood. Stark lifted his sword in acceptance of the challenge. The other men fell to it with a clamor, shouts and battle cries punctuating the clash of steel on steel. 

Arthur strode evenly forward, his white cloak rippling behind him. He led off with an overhand slash that Stark blocked easily, as Arthur knew he would, testing his opponent’s strength. Shifting his weight, he brought Dawn around to quickly hew at Stark’s right side, and again Stark parried, though a little less elegantly than before. 

Arthur heard the jingle of chain mail behind him. He raised Dawn in time to block the sword of a northman who had tried to sneak up on him unawares, seeking glory, perhaps, or desperate to assist his liege lord. Arthur swung Dawn in a flashing arc, hewing off the interloper’s head, then leapt aside to dodge an opportunistic swing of Stark’s blade. Stark shouted a name that became lost in the din of battle, and came at Arthur with a sudden fury, forcing him to retreat a few steps. 

As Arthur defended himself, he looked over Stark’s head and saw that Ser Oswell was beset by three rebels who swarmed him like angry hornets. Blood had splashed across his white armor, though it was impossible to say whose it was. Arthur tried to reverse around Stark, failed, then tried to push their duel closer towards his sworn brother, but Stark held his ground and would not give an inch. 

They clashed a final time, and planted their feet in the earth.  

Arthur leaned in with all of his strength, Dawn glinting in the sunlight. Stark pushed back so hard that he shook, and their swords rattled together. There was no fear in Stark’s eyes, but there was a flicker of doubt. That was enough. In one liquid movement, Arthur slid his sword down the outer edge of Stark’s blade, arced the tip towards the ground, and pulled it away. The sword spun from Stark’s grasp and landed in the dust, where it stole his opponent’s attention for half a heartbeat. Arthur kicked the sword out of reach and thrust Dawn forward for the kill. 

Then a sudden agony hobbled him, and the point of his sword went wide. It glanced off Stark’s breastplate with a screech of metal. Arthur glanced behind him to see the hooded man withdrawing his spear from the back of Arthur's left knee, the bronze point dripping with blood. Recovering quickly from the shock, Arthur rounded on his assailant. He felt blood trickling down his calf, but the leg could still bear weight, and the hooded man in boiled leather was an easy target. 

He swung at the man’s unprotected neck, but the man neatly dodged and backpedalled out of reach. He was watching Arthur expectantly.  

Arthur took another step, risking a glance over his shoulder to see that Stark had recovered his sword, then he stumbled. Dawn fell clumsily from his hands. He extended his arm towards it and found that he could not wrap his fingers around the hilt. His muscles were refusing to work properly. The pain in his wound had suddenly increased a hundredfold, tiny fangs racing up his leg, through his body, down his arms. 

 _A bog devil_ , Arthur realized belatedly, staring at the hooded man.  _I should have killed him first_ _._ Iron bands began to tighten around his chest. He clawed at his breastplate, trying to remove it, but his hands bumped uselessly against the leather straps. 

He looked to his right, and saw Ser Gerold fall with a dagger handle sticking out of his visor. He had a man without a helm by the throat, and they went down into the dirt together. The rebel, a huge mountain clansman, was struggling mightily to free himself from Ser Gerold’s grip, but Arthur knew he would have better luck prying a dragon’s jaws apart.  _Stubborn to the end, old man_. 

He glanced to his left, and saw Ser Oswell lying prone amid three dead rebels. His bat-winged helm was dinted in a dozen places. So much blood had flowed into the dust that it had turned to mud. 

 _The last three_ , Arthur thought again. _I'm sorry, Rhaegar_. He fell to his hands and knees, his vision growing dark around the edges as the air hardened in his lungs. 

He heard the dull clanging of armored feet, and looked up to see Stark standing over him. The northman’s eyes were wide, the shock written plainly on his face.  _He had no idea his bannerman’s spear was poisoned_ , Arthur realized.  

Arthur tried to speak, but found he could no longer breathe.  _Let me die a knight’s death_ , he prayed silently, and Stark seemed to hear. The northman took him by the shoulders so he was sitting upright, then removed Arthur’s helm. 

Stark’s sword was sharp, and his aim was true.  _Thank the gods for that_. 


End file.
